


Withdrawal

by devilssnare



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Drug Addict!Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Medical, References to Drugs, Uni Student!Sherlock, intern!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilssnare/pseuds/devilssnare
Summary: John Watson just wanted to find a place to sleep between his rounds when he came across a strange man talking to a vending machine.





	Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mentions of addiction to drugs and Kit Kats
> 
> Some medical mumbo jumbo.  
> Is it correct? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I did Google it but if I'm wrong, tell me.  
> Unbeta'd

It was twenty past three in the morning and John’s shift in paediatrics had finally finished. 

No children had died today, so that was always a plus, but after a fourteen-hour shift, John was ready to go home and collapse. 

Only, he couldn’t. 

While his next shift started at nine, little Josephine McKinley’s test results would be back from the lab soon and John really didn’t want to keep Mr and Mrs McKinley waiting, especially since they drove all the way from Dartmouth to be here tonight. 

John walked down an empty sixth floor corridor, enjoying the peace and quiet and the endless dull and bare hallway, so different from the brightly coloured and decorated children’s ward. 

He was looking for cupboard or even an empty row of chairs for him to rest his eyes, when movement from the adjoined waiting room drew his attention. 

There was a man in grey, low hanging tracksuit pants and a thin black shirt kneeling in front of the vending machine, seemingly bargaining with the electronic device. 

“Excuse me?” John said, walking towards the man who, as John got closer, was shaking quite servery and sweating feverishly. “Are you okay?” 

The man took a shaky breath and didn’t look at John, instead thumping the side of the vending machine with a closed fist. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Even though the man looked and sounded like hell, he still spoke with a pompous tone. 

This was one of the best hospitals in London, so John was used to dealing with posh and ill prats but he had never come across one quite like this. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, now leave me alone!” 

The man’s yell echoed throughout the empty hall. 

John wasn’t going to leave him alone but he knew he had to be strategic when it came to helping this man. 

“Okay,” John said, walking away. “I’ll just leave you to it then.”

John had only rounded the corner when the man spoke again. 

“Wait,” he called and John returned. 

The man turned to face him and John was met with watering, red eyes and a sunken, pale face. 

“Could you help me, please?”

John gave his brightest grin.

“Certainly!” 

He moved to stand next to the man and he saw what the problem was.

“Got stuck, huh? Here, I’m good with these.” John tipped the vending machine slightly to its side and then thumped it quite hard. 

The packet of wedged _Quavers_ fell, obtaining a relieved sign from the man who had paid for them.

The man took the packet of crisps and pulled himself, with straining effort, onto one of the many plush chairs. 

John sat down across from him, suddenly wide-awake with curiosity. 

He watched the man slowly eat the ‘c’ shaped crisps.

“So,” John said, causing the man to look up from where he was slumped. “Are you visiting?” 

The man lifted one thin, frail wrist and John watched the plastic hospital band slide down his pale forearm. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. What are you in for?”

The man tipped the bag upside down to get the last of the crumbs. 

“Withdrawal.” 

John looked him up and down. He was thin and he looked like he hadn’t showered in a few days but, aside from the shaking and sweating, the man still looked well-groomed. 

“Alcohol?”

The man shook his head and stood up again, pulling out a fiver and feeding it to the machine. 

He and John watched the spiral coil holding the _Kit-Kat_ turn and stop before it could deliver the man’s treat. 

The man swore and hit the machine.

John jumped up and worked his magic, causing not only two _Kit-Kats_ to fall but a _Galaxy_ and a _Mars Bar_ as well. 

The man gave John the latter two and they sat down opposite each other again.

The man ate one half of the chocolate before he answered John.

“Heroin.” 

John was quite shocked. The man said it with such indifference. As bad and stereotyping as it was, John could normally pin point any drug addict but this man didn’t seem the type. 

His arms were bare and with a quick look, John did notice a couple of track marks. 

“I’m sorry.”

The man looked at him with distaste.

“Why? You didn’t push the needle into my veins.” 

John slumped and ate his _Mars Bar_ , watching the man watch him.

The man suddenly curled into himself and started retching and with cat-like reflex, John grabbed one of the kidney shaped bowls that was, luckily, stashed between seats and place it gently under the man’s chin.

He watched the man vomit up the food he had attempted to beat up a vending machine for. 

The man groaned and rubbed the taste away from his lips, coughing and slouching away from John’s sympathetic noises and pats.

“Lucky me,” the man said, murmuring mostly to himself. “Vomiting in front of the cute army doctor.” 

John flushed at being called cute but his interest was piqued from the other thing the man said. 

“Army doctor? How did you—”

“Haircut, mostly, and the way you hold yourself but you know what truly gave it away?” The man lifted his non-vomit-smeared hand and pulled out John’s dog tags from beneath his shirt. “You’re jingling.” 

John clutched at the two thin shards of metal and flushed. He had gotten used to the ever-present clinking. 

“Oh, right.”

The man smiled at John and leant over to vomit again.

His shaking was getting worse and the man’s knees started jostling together. 

“Where are you supposed to be?” 

The man laughed. 

“Ha. Uni.”

John gave him a look and the man heaved himself up, away from John and towards the double glass doors that accessed the balcony. 

John followed him, terrified that the man would jump, but he didn’t, instead sliding down the concrete ledge, sighing at the cool breeze.

John pressed the back of his hand against the man’s forehead, feeling a fever coming along. 

“Come on, let’s get you back to your room.” 

The man didn’t budge, closing his eyes and folding himself in, trying to control his convulsions. 

John gave in, sliding down next to him, checking his pulse and his temperature once again before letting go and studying the man’s face. 

Despite the lack of light and the sickening health the man was in, he was still handsome and if he and John met in any other scenario, John would be turning on the charm.

They sat outside for a moment, the man enjoying the breeze and John enjoying the peace and serenity. They had both almost lulled into a quiet nap-like state when a posh voice echoed down the hallway.

“Sherlock Holmes, I swear to God. Stop acting like a child and come back to your room!”

The man—Sherlock groaned.

“That you?”

Sherlock made an affirming noise and let John pull him up. 

When they came back inside, the voice made itself known.

“There you are,” said a well-dressed man, wielding an umbrella like a weapon. “Do I have to lock you up or are you going to stop escaping?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and made his way towards the lifts. He leant heavily against the wall as he scoffed.

“Whatever. I don’t even need to be here.”

John didn’t see the other man’s expression, instead focussing a look of disbelieving towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered towards him and he sighed, slumping further against the wall.

“Fine, fine.” He said, entering the lift that opened with a soft _ding!_ “I’m going.” 

The doors closed and Sherlock vanished, leaving John alone with Sherlock’s keeper who was staring at him with interest. 

“I should thank you,” the man said, looking at him shrewdly. “My brother is notorious when it comes to hospital staff but you seemed to have escape unscathed.” 

John shrugged. 

“He was just hungry and sick. It’s my duty.” 

Sherlock’s brother narrowed his eyes. 

“Yes.” He seemed to be looking for something in John’s face but when he couldn’t find whatever it was, he shook his head and gave a quick smile. “Thank you, Doctor-?”

“Watson, sir. John Watson.” 

“Doctor Watson,” the man nodded and made his way towards the lifts that his brother had just left from. 

The man didn’t break eye contact with him as the lift doors closed and when John was alone, he was left feeling slimy and uncomfortable. 

Jesus, he really needed a kip. 

 

After five hours sleep and a quick coffee, John was delivering the good news to the McKinley’s that Josephine’s lung cyst was treatable and after a good cry session or two and multiple hugs from both parents and patient, John decided to spend his break in the Psych Unit, looking for Sherlock. 

John wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that Sherlock was a real person or just a sleep-deprived hallucination that he had fancied up but he still flirted with the receptionist behind the glass, hoping to find Sherlock’s room number. 

His brother wasn’t there like John expected, instead a greying man sat outside of Sherlock’s room, a _Starbucks_ coffee at his feet and _The Telegraph_ opened on his lap. 

“Excuse me,” John interrupted the man. He looked up and smiled at John, looking far more awake and alert than John felt. 

“Are you one of Sherlock’s doctors?” 

“No, I’m more of his…friend?” 

The man raised a brow.

“A friend?”

“Well, sort of. I met him last night and I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

The man smiled again.

“Oh, yeah. Mycroft told me about you.” Mycroft and Sherlock? Jesus, their parents must have hated them. “You can go in, but I’m warning you, he’s in a shite of a mood.” 

“Thanks, mate.”

“Anytime.” The man held out his hand. “Greg Lestrade.”

“John Watson.”

Greg nodded and went back to his paper.

John knocked on the door but when there was no reply he pushed the door open slightly, only to be almost hit by an empty IV bag.

“Seriously, good luck.” Greg said, with an amused smile. 

John knocked again and a louder crash came.

“Sherlock?” John asked, awaiting another crash. When nothing came, he peered through the small crack.

Sherlock was there, crossed-legged in bed, a distraught look on his face.

John, feeling brave, eased into the small room, noting the mess of sheets, used IV bags and multiple pens and sheets of paper.

“Really not fond of visitors, are you?” 

Sherlock didn’t speak or even move, looking quite shell-shocked.

He looked better, John noted. He had obviously showered and had a shave. He was still wearing his grubby clothes but John knew that a lot of admitted patients hated wearing the gowns if they had a choice. 

Sherlock didn’t speak and John sat against the frame of Sherlock’s bed, reading his chart. 

Sherlock was on quite a high dose of buprenorphine, which means he had a long detox to go. 

“Have you been given anything else?” John did regret his question. He came here to see Sherlock, not play doctor, but some habits die-hard. Ironic, in this case. 

When Sherlock nodded his head, John frowned. 

“They gave me naltrexone,” Sherlock said, his voice hoarse as he still looked at John bewildered. 

John checked Sherlock admittance time. He had only been checked in about an hour before John found him.

“When was your last hit?” 

Sherlock sunk into himself and shoved his hands into the threaded blanket (the only one that wasn’t on the floor); mostly likely hide his shaky hands. 

“Just before I came here. Mycroft found me.”

“Did you tell them? The doctor or nurses?”

Sherlock nodded and John felt livid. 

Sherlock must have noticed John’s face turning red as his eyebrows bunched together and his lips pursed. 

“So they gave you naltrexone while you still had heroin in your system? Well, that explains your state last night!” John was angry.

Sherlock shrugged.

“They said it was to calm me down.”

“Then take a bloody diazepam! They gave you an opioid antagonist drug, knowing full well that you still had heroin in your bloodstream. Un-bloody-believable!” 

Sherlock eyes widened.

“Ah, and heroin is an opioid agonist. Ha! Mycroft is not going to be happy!” Sherlock looked way too thrilled at the idea that the hospital staff knowingly put him into unnecessary danger, but John was more concerned with Sherlock knowledge about drugs. 

At John’s alarmed look, Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“I’m a chemist major at university.” John deflated. “Besides, who else would deal me drugs after Mycroft paid them all off?”

John closed his eyes. He had a very short temper (not best for doctors) and Sherlock’s suggestion that he made his own drugs was just about enough. 

“You make your own—you know what? I’ll ask later. Who’s your psychiatrist?”

Sherlock shrugged. 

Great.

John checked his watch. It had gone past ten, which probably meant Sherlock’s doctor had long gone home. He wasn’t about to follow Sherlock’s psychiatrist home just to yell at him.

“I’ll find out and deal with that later. My break ends soon,” he looked Sherlock up and down, remembering last night vending machine and vomiting festivity. “Have you eaten?”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“Mycroft went to go get me something, or he just wanted an excuse not to be around Lestrade. One night stands do tend to make things a bit awkward.”

There was a bang on the window from outside and Sherlock smiled, knowing that Greg outside could hear them.

“Good to know you’re just as cheeky when sober then you are when you’re high.”

Sherlock tried to hide his smile by pulling his lips in. 

“Got to keep it consistent.” 

John laughed.

“Well, I should head out. My break ends soon and I’m starving. It’s good to see you’re better and… real.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, looking too innocent and cute for John to handle this early. 

“Good to know you’re real as well.”

John smiled and waved.

“I’ll come check on you later. Bye Sherlock.”

“Wait!” John turned around. “Can you ask Lestrade for the crossword. I’m dying in here.” 

John snorted. 

“Sure.”

He closed the door behind him and found Mycroft there with Greg.

Sherlock was right, there was so much tension in the way the men looked at each other. 

Greg smiled when he saw John but Mycroft looked at him the same way he did the night before, like he could read everything about John just from his face.

John was pleased to see Mycroft holding a paper bag that smelt faintly of eggs and pepper. 

“I told Mycroft what I overheard.” Greg said, needlessly gesturing towards the other man. 

“I’ll speak with Doctor Nelson.”

“He’s probably gone home for today, but if I run into him, I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” 

Both Greg and Mycroft were looking at him oddly and John felt that that was a sign to leave.

“Well, I gotta’ get back but I’ll check on him soon. Pleased to meet you,” John nodded towards Greg. He looked at Mycroft but didn’t think the glaring man would appreciate nor welcome a farewell. 

John got to the locked electronic doors when he turned around.

“Greg!” John called and the man turned. “Sherlock wants the crossword.” 

Greg laughed.

“The bastard. I asked him if he wanted it earlier and he completely blanked me.” 

John laughed as well, knowing full well that Sherlock could hear everything that they were saying.

“Do the same.” 

John left the Psych Ward and made his way back up to paediatrics, stopping for a cold and stale sandwich from the forth floor vending machine, Sherlock a permanent worry in the back on his mind. 

 

John’s feet were so numb, he wasn’t entirely sure if they were still attached or not. 

He had just finished his first shift in his A&E rounds and he quite honestly missed the nauseating pink of the children’s ward and the constant loop of nursery rhymes. 

Still, he did enjoy all the hustle and bustle. He enjoyed chaos; it reminded him of his military training. 

John still thought that his idea for a seat in the lift was a good one, when he made his way up to the Psych Unit, leaning heavily on the lift’s metal interior walls. 

He has been seeing Sherlock at least once a day for the past week and John is very proud of his progress.

He got over the worst few days of vomiting and muscle spasms with cheek and a bit of vindictiveness but he was literally sweating out an addiction, so John gave him some leeway. 

John wasn’t sure what happened to Doctor Nelson but the nurse’s assistant that John cornered the day after he met Sherlock, said that he never came in for his next shift and no one had heard from him since. A little disconcerting, considering Mycroft’s face when he found out about Doctor Nelson’s fuck-up, but John really didn’t want to get involved in any of that shadiness, he just wanted Sherlock to get better.

He waved to the receptionist when she let him in, spotting a well-dressed woman outside Sherlock’s room.

Anytime John came to visit Sherlock, there was always someone waiting outside, whether is be Greg or Mycroft or this well-dressed woman who would never give John her name. Sometimes, it was just a large, bulky man. John reasoned that it was probably Mycroft’s attempt at keeping Sherlock where he was supposed to be and not wondering around the hospital again.

He nodded at the lady and she nodded back, not looking up from her phone.

He knocked and after a few shuffling noises there was a small ‘come in’ and John did.

Sherlock was in bed, with multiple manila files open and spread around him. Mycroft was looking amused from his place at the small table across from Sherlock, his laptop open to what looked like a map of Russia. 

“Hey Sherlock, how ya’ feeling?”

“Fine, no shakes or anything.” 

“That’s good.”

Sherlock’s eye stalked John across the room where he sat next to Mycroft, who immediately shut his laptop. He didn’t know what Mycroft did and he didn’t want to. 

He knew that Greg was a sergeant at Scotland Yard and was close to promotion, and Mycroft must be something similar for their paths to cross, right?

“Can you guess what patients I had today?”

There was a game he and Sherlock played whenever John’s visits coincided with the end of his shifts. Sherlock could guess, or ‘deduce’ as he called it, what patients John dealt with that day. 

Sherlock put down a file and looked John up and down.

“Sick, vomiting child.” John nodded. “Plastered a broken bone.” John nodded again. “Someone bled on you—broken nose?” John smiled. “And…you delivered bad news.” John nodded and pulled a _Kit-Kat_ out of his pocket.

“Good job. Here-“ 

Sherlock scoffed.

“You don’t need to praise me like a child.” John took Sherlock’s tone in stride, used to his mood swings. John was beginning to think that it was just Sherlock’s personality and not a side-affect of withdrawal. 

John shrugged and offered the chocolate to Mycroft.

“Want it?” 

Mycroft went to take it.

“No, no. I want it!” 

John and Mycroft shared a look and John threw the bar at Sherlock, who caught it gracefully. 

“So, I actually have good news for you. Both of you.” 

He faced Sherlock, not liking the gleam in Mycroft’s eyes that he got whenever he was in the same room with both him and Sherlock. 

“You’re on the lowest dose of buprenorphine possible and you’re not showing anymore withdrawal symptoms, unless you count irritability, but I’m coming to think that you’re just irritable by nature.” He gave Sherlock a grin, letting him know he was kidding. “They’ll probably want to keep you in here for a few more days, just to make sure you’re not dependant on anything new or likely to relapse which means you’re probably going to have to stay with a reliable friend or family member for a while.” He gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile, as he knew how much Sherlock detested his brother. “But nevertheless, you’re free.” 

Sherlock smiled wide and John’s chest hurt. He was beginning to not think of Sherlock as a helpless patient anymore and that wasn’t good. 

“That’s great,” Mycroft said. “Will he be on anything else?”

“That’s really for the psych to decide, but I don’t see why. We normally only put recovering addicts on anti-depressants if they are showing signs of depression or something, but Sherlock seems right, but then again I haven’t been monitoring his mood.” His tone turned serious. “If he is showing signs of possible relapse, maybe don’t let them administer him drugs that would worsen his conditions.” 

He saw Sherlock roll his eyes and John laughed, a little self-conscious at his obviously concern for Sherlock. 

He coughed. 

“Mate, you must be ecstatic to finally be rid of me, ay?” 

Sherlock froze and his eyes widened, as if the thought never occurred to him.

He and Sherlock just stared at each other for a bit until John had to look away, an unwanted confession about to spill out of his mouth if he kept staring into Sherlock’s green eyes. 

“Well,” he coughed, facing the wall. “I’m going to have a kip. Don’t want to pass out during my next shift, that wouldn’t bode well for me or my patients.” He turned to Mycroft. “You have me beeper number –so um, beep me if anything happens.” He looked at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved. “Eat.” John pointed at the untouched chocolate bar.

There was an awkward silence as John stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared back until there was a cough from behind John, forcing him back into reality. 

“Yeah, I’ll-uh, go.” He almost ran out the room, running into the poor unnamed woman keeping watch outside Sherlock’s door. “Sorry,” he murmured. 

 

John tried to rest but his mind was buzzing. 

One of the first things that they teach you at med school is not to get too attached. His old orthopaedic profession even spoke of a legend about a doctor who fell in love with his patient and drugged her to keep her in the hospital. 

There was also the policy of ‘no sleeping with patients’ and while Sherlock wasn’t technically his patient, John couldn’t take advantage of the power imbalance. 

No, he would let Sherlock leave and let him try to forget this dark period of his life. Sherlock was young, only twenty-two, and probably wouldn’t want to date the doctor who found him haggling with a vending machine, suffering from withdrawal. 

 

John was sitting in the canteen trying to choke down what was apparently lasagne and lukewarm tea when Stamford came barrelling towards him. 

“Mate, take a breather.” John said, watching Stamford’s face turn red as he huffed.

“You know that bloke you told to keep an eye one while I’m on Psych rounds? He’s leaving. Thought you’d like to know.” 

John stood up, leaving his now-cold tea and sorry excuse for Italian cuisine behind. He patted his friend’s back in thanks and bolted up the stairs, not even considering waiting for the lifts.

Mycroft, Greg, the nameless woman, and the big, suited man were all there, surrounding Sherlock who, for the first time that John’s known him, was dressed in something other than his ratty sweatpants. 

He was dressed in a suit that looked expensive enough to pay off all of John’s medical school fees and tight enough that John felt he couldn’t get enough air in. 

Greg was holding a small leather duffle bag (probably housing Sherlock’s belongings) and nudged Sherlock with it when he spotted John.

Sherlock’s ‘entourage’ melted away when Sherlock whispered something to them. Mycroft stayed, giving Sherlock a look until Greg, thankfully, pulled him away. 

“So, you must be excited, huh?” John said, false cheerfulness decorating his words. “Finally getting out.”

Sherlock smiled and looked at John’s shirt and snorted. 

John followed Sherlock’s gaze and found it stained orangey-red.

“Disappointing lasagne?” 

John chuckled.

“Right, again. But I don’t have a _Kit-Kat_ for you, this time.” 

Sherlock shrugged.

“This one is free.” 

There was a silence and John desperately wanted to shout the incriminating feelings he felt for Sherlock.

 _Please don’t leave. My visits down here are the best things about my rounds. You can make the pain of a lost patient go away just by smiling._

Sherlock held out his hand.

“Thank you, for everything.”

That sounded like a goodbye and John drew himself up. He was a soldier, of fuck’s sake. He wasn’t going to let this tight feeling in his chest get the better of him.

He took Sherlock’s hand and shook.

“Anytime.” 

He walked out with them to patient pickup, where a black Benz with heavily tinted windows pulled up. 

He watched the nameless lady and the nameless man get it.

“It was good meeting you, mate,” Greg said, patting his shoulder. “We should grab a pint soon.” 

John nodded.

“Yeah, and good luck with the promotion and…” he looked at Mycroft, “other things.”

Greg flushed, nodded, and got in the car.

Sherlock smiled at him, a small, sad smile and followed Greg, leaving John alone with Mycroft.

“I should thank you, Doctor Watson, for everything you did for my brother.”

There was that slimy feeling again.

“It was nothing, I would have done it for any other patient.” 

Mycroft looked at him disbelievingly. 

Yes, it was a lie, but dear God, Mycroft’s knowing looks weren’t helping the situation. 

“Regardless, if there is anything I can do for you, name it now.” 

John bit is lip, looking into the window that was too tinted to see inside.

“Just…” he looked away from the window, not wanting to seem anymore pathetic than he already felt. “Make sure he stays sober.” 

Mycroft looked at him and nodded and with an odd look thrown John’s way, Mycroft got into the car.

John watched the black vehicle drive away, a hollow feeling left in his chest.

 

It was nine am and John was cranky.

It was one of his rare days off and he was going to murder, then bring back to life (he was a doctor, he couldn’t help it) and then murder again the person knocking at his door. 

He was tired from his shift in surgery and his complete lack of nap, bearing in mind that the only place in the hospital where one was guaranteed uninterrupted sleep was tainted with the memory of Sherlock and no, he was not pining after Sherlock. 

Much. 

He really didn’t want to answer the door. 

He did, out of his goddamn British politeness, and was stunned to find Mycroft there, suited to the nines and still wielding that umbrella/weapon. 

“Uh, hi?” John asked, before becoming panicked. “Oh God, is Sherlock okay? He hasn’t relapsed, has he?” 

John hadn’t received a call from Psych and John was adamant to the receptionist, (who John had finally learnt was called Natalie) to call him if Sherlock was readmitted. 

“Worse,” Mycroft said and John’s heart plummeted. “He’s pining.” 

John was about to punch Mycroft’s exasperated expression right off his face. 

“Ok, so?” 

Mycroft smiled and yep, the slimy feeling hasn’t vanished during the past fortnight. 

“Come,” Mycroft said, walking inside. “Get dressed.” 

John stood there looking at a man who had no place being amongst John’s second-hand sofa and coffee table, which was actually just a bunch of wooden pallets nailed together. 

It was quite funny, seeing Mycroft standing there in a three-piece suit worth more than anything John will ever own, standing next to the living room lamp, held together with electronic tape and sheer willpower. 

“You do realise that this is crazy, right?” John said, walking to his room to get changed in peace and shutting his door behind him, praying that Mycroft won’t follow. “I haven’t seen or heard from any of you, not even Greg, for a fortnight and you just expect me to follow you at your beckoning?” 

“Yes,” came the arrogant reply through the door and since John had just zipped his jeans up, he knew Mycroft was correct. 

He left his room, searching for his shoes, wallet, and keys. 

“Fine, but only because I’m worried about my patient.” 

John turned around as Mycroft’s scoff. 

“Doctor Watson, do not think me oblivious.” Mycroft stepped forward, swinging his umbrella. “You like my brother.”

John swallowed. 

“I do not… not like him.” Even to his own ears, his denial sounded weak. 

Mycroft just stared at him and soon John was in the familiar black Benz, driving through a neighbourhood too posh for the likes of him, a heavy feeling in his stomach. 

They passed a _Tesco Express_ and John got an idea.

“Stop the car for a sec?” 

The car stopped and John hopped out.

A few minutes later, he was back next to Mycroft, panting but pleased, with four _Kit-Kats_ in his sweaty hands. 

Mycroft spotted John’s haul and, for the first time since John’s known him, smiled in a way that didn’t seem creepy or leave John feeling slimy. 

John watched the houses pass, each one seemingly bigger than the last, feeling more out of place each time the letter box numbers rose. 

He wondered aloud what Mycroft did that provided him the finances to live here. 

“I occupy a minor position in the British Government.” 

Somehow, John would have felt more comfortable if Mycroft turned out to be a mafia king or something less likely to ruin John’s medical or military career in an instance if something bad happened between him and Sherlock. 

The car pulled into a gravel driveway, the crunching noise like bullets to John’s nervous mind. 

He followed Mycroft into a large foyer, seeing more silk and mahogany wood in that single room than he ever thought he would ever see in his life. 

John followed Mycroft down a long hallway, studying each portrait as they passed.

“Ever since he was released, he’s been miserable. Locking himself away, not eating, scaring away my staff and hoarding my entire collection of tea cups,” Mycroft said, breaking the silence. “I thought it was the absence of drugs or stimulation, so I asked Gregory to dig up some cold cases for him but even that didn’t work.” 

They were nearing closer to the end of the hallway, a large window waiting for at the end. John tried not to imagine himself jumping out of it.

“But then Gregory suggested that he was missing you and I, of course, had to check.” 

They stood outside a large wooden door, a tray of sandwiches and iced tea waiting outside, untouched. 

Faint violin music was heard.

‘That’s all he does, all day,” Mycroft said, sounding stilted. 

John turned to look at him. Mycroft looked uncomfortable but blanked face, the only indicators of the man’s true feelings were his eyes, which were lost and heartbroken for his little brother. 

Mycroft knocked.

The music cut off with a sharp assault of strings. 

Sherlock opened the door, shaven yet unwashed, wearing only his pyjamas and dressing gown, looking peeved. 

“What?” 

Mycroft didn’t say anything, instead moving aside to allow Sherlock to catch sight of the much shorter John.

Sherlock froze and his eyes widen. 

The door slammed shut right back in their faces.

John laughed, trying to hide his broken feelings.

“Guess we got our answer.” 

Mycroft looked puzzled.

“Apologies, Doctor Watson. I thought maybe—“ Mycroft cut himself, pulling a polite smile. “Anyway, please have a cup of tea while you’re here. I did drag you all this way on your day off only to have your nose flattened. It’s the least I can do.”

John sat in Mycroft’s fairly large kitchen, the man himself sitting across from John and a heavyset woman pouring them tea and serving them bite-size choc-chip muffins. 

There was no conversation. What was there to be said? Sorry you dragged me all the way here, got my hopes up, only for Sherlock to slam the door in my face? 

Mycroft just sat there; reading today’s paper, completely oblivious with John’s internal debate with the pros and cons of slamming his head against the table. 

The kitchen door flung open so hard that it chipped at the paint on the wall, revealing a washed, dressed Sherlock. 

“I’d thought you’d gone.” Sherlock said, looking as if he bolted down from his room.

John felt similarly out of breath. 

“I’d thought you didn’t want me here.” 

There was a silence as Mycroft looked from his brother to John.

“I have some calls to make.” He said, rising from the table. He looked at his housekeep who was watching the boys with keen interest. “Mrs Taylor, don’t you have some dusting to do?” 

They left but John didn’t notice, instead taking in Sherlock for the first time in two weeks. 

He looked healthy, if not a little thin. The dark rings under his eyes were gone and so were his sunken cheeks, showing off an impressive set of cheekbone. 

John didn’t think it was fair that Sherlock looked this good. 

“So, how are you?” 

“I’m good, thank you. No more symptoms, except for the occasional headache.”

Sherlock slid into the chair Mycroft abandoned. 

“That’s good.” 

“How’s surgery?” Sherlock asked, with an arrogant raise of his brow.

John laughed.

“Very good.” He slid one of the _Kit-Kats_ across the table towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock took the sweet with a soft look on his face. John kept talking to ignore the feeling bubbling up in his chest.

“It’s great, actually. It’s my chosen specialty, you know? It’s what I’m training to do when I go…” 

John clicked his fingers to avoid saying the word. 

“To war?”

“Yes, that.”

There was a silence that seemed to follow John and Sherlock everywhere.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, instead was occupied with spinning the treat around. 

“Why are you here?”

John folded his arms.

“Maybe I missed my favourite patient?” 

Sherlock didn’t speak or even react. 

“So,” John said, taking a sip of tea. “I heard that Greg brought you over some cases. Still wanna’ be a detective, huh?” 

Sherlock nodded.

“That’s great. Something you keep you occupied and sober.” 

Sherlock still didn’t speak.

John sighed and stood up.

“Maybe I overstayed my welcome.” 

He walked past Sherlock, stopping to put the leftover chocolate bars in front on his when Sherlock grabbed his wrist. 

“Why did you come?” 

John looked away.

“Your brother coerced me.” 

Sherlock stood up, his younger body still leering over John’s. 

“You’re stubborn and you could definitely tell Mycroft to bugger off, so tell me,” Sherlock grip tightened and he looked anxious. “Why did you come?”

“I wanted to see you.” John’s chest felt light after saying that. He never said it out loud before, never allowing himself to, in case it caused him to act rashly and act on the feelings. 

Sherlock dragged John by the wrist back to his room, not speaking once.

John was either going to be murdered or something else much more pleasant. Either way, he was excited. 

Sherlock shut the door behind John and pressed him against it, kissing him dry and hard. 

John kissed back, changing the kiss into something less forceful and more relaxed. 

Sherlock broke apart first, leaning his forehead against John’s, his eyes still closed.

“Sorry,” Sherlock huffed. “But Mycroft has cameras in ever room bar mine.” 

John pushed Sherlock away slightly. 

“Seriously?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Jesus.” 

John took a minute to think that maybe Mycroft was downplaying his job description. He then mentally slapped himself for thinking about _Mycroft_ when he had Sherlock in his arms. 

He kissed Sherlock again, enjoying the surprised noise Sherlock whimpered into his mouth. 

“I know a place with no cameras.” 

Sherlock smiled onto John’s mouth.

“Really?” He purred. “Tell me more.”

Sherlock slid his crotch to John’s and froze.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, sounding surprised but not put off.

“Oh, no, no.” John justified, pulling out the _Kit-Kats_ he grabbed from the table out from his pocket.

Sherlock snorted.

“Wishful thinking.” 

“Oh,” John said, letting Sherlock kiss him again.

 

John’s alarm was going off.

He rolled over and threw his slipper at it, missing. 

He groaned and rolled over to the other side of the bed, looking for his boyfriend. When he found cold sheets, he groaned and dragged himself out of bed. 

The kitchen light was on and when John slid open the glass door he was greeted to the wonderful sight of Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, wearing nothing but the sofa blanket, looking through his microscope. 

“Morning, love.” 

“Morning.”

John went about making tea for both he and Sherlock, turning on the kettle and walking around the table to kiss his boyfriend good morning. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, licking his lips. “I just love morning breath on you.” 

John pushed Sherlock’s microscope away from him.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, gorgeous.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek and pulled the microscope back to its place.

There was a clinking of metal on ceramic in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

John took his and Sherlock’s mugs to the table, stopping to mark off the calendar.

“Not long now.”

He felt arms wrap around his waist and Sherlock’s head on his shoulder. 

“As much as I enjoy hearing about your impending departure to the Middle East,” Sherlock said, pulling John back to the bedroom. “I have something else in mind.”

“Sherlock, I have to be at the hospital in an hour.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock said, pulling at John’s pants. “I set the alarm to go off an hour earlier.” 

John laughed, pushing Sherlock onto the bed and leaning over him. 

“Clever boy. There’s a _Kit-Kat_ with that for you.”

Sherlock laughed and pulled John down. 

 

Their tea went cold.


End file.
